We're right royally fed up with being shut out of our daily ravine walks. We miss the forest trails, the look of the forest, the trees marbled with snow that no amount of wind can shake down, the appearance of old stumps well padded in snow, like fat little gnomes of the forest, the deepening snowpack on the forest floor and the sheer exuberance we feel being out in the cold, crisp air, the most breathable, clean air possible.

We know our two little dogs miss their daily jaunts in the ravine, as well. When they're out in the backyard they go a little berserk, loving the snow, the bracing cold, the urge to romp about, the challenges one brings to the other to run after, jump higher, box and wrestle better. Unfortunately, in this hugely unusual, prolonged deep-freeze we've been undergoing, they aren't out for too long before they begin to feel the icy-cold biting their paws, cooling down their bodies to an uncomfortable degree. Then their happiness turns to puzzlement and they make a beeline up the stairs to the deck and shiver at the patio doors. We, of course, are right behind them.

We vowed that today we'd no longer hesitate to take them out. Inclement weather or not. Those -20C days never kept us out of the ravine in years past. So on with their sweaters, winter coat over the sweaters, broad leather halter over the coat, and last, their boots. We reasoned that if we kept them on the leash while we went along the forest trails they wouldn't exert themselves in a display of their usual bouncy attitudes and the boots would remain in place. So, we set out, ourselves well insulated against the cold, in the -17C temperature that is today's high. It felt tolerable.

We felt confident we'd be able to do a circuit -- at least a relatively short one -- with little discomfort to them or to us. The wind that cut through layers of clothing out on the street abated once we dipped out way into the forest. But before we even got that far, the first boot came off. Two minutes later, another boot, one for each of them. So the boots had to be manoeuvred back on.

We'd gone barely  1/15th of the way that a short circuit would take us when we realized it was a futile venture. Boots came off either of them at least ten times, necessitating that gloves be taken off, bare hands exposed to the cold, and cold, stiff fingers used to negotiate the boots back onto reluctant little feet. Finally, we just gave up, returned home and called it a day.

Disappointing. There's a lesson there. The old boots I used to make for our little dogs decades ago, of my own design, might not have appeared anything near as professional in appearance as the Muttluks well-advertised brand we now use, but they worked a whole lot better. On rare occasions one boot might come off; nothing to resemble the experience we've had with these professionally-designed and manufactured boots with such an undeserved reputation for dependable practical use.

This is the first time I can recall being a virtual prisoner in my home on the occasion of my birthday. It is, of course, solely voluntary. On other, earlier years of my birth date weather played no part whatever in deciding what we would do in winter to exercise and amuse ourselves. Venturing out into a woodland setting to enjoy the winter atmosphere was always our choice and we pursued it. Not necessarily without also doing other things, but celebrating winter was integral to our living in a climate in which winter is an emphatic presence.

This winter, during the time of my birthday, my 81st birthday that also coincides with the universal celebrations for Christmas and of New Year's, outdoor activities are writ large in the leisure activity schedule of many people, and certainly it always has been for us. This, however, has been an unusual week, one of widespread polar Arctic cold carried over a wide geographic area in North America following an unusual amount of snowfall also for this early part of the winter season.

Our youngest son is spending time with us, my husband, our two little dogs and me. The weather he has become accustomed to in Vancouver is nowhere near as dramatically extreme as it is in Ottawa. He, however, seeks out his own lifestyle adventures by venturing into the mountains to ski and to hike; even there, ascending the mountains, the atmosphere doesn't tend to reach the frigid icy temperatures we have in eastern Canada. Here, extreme cold carries with it moist conditions that exacerbate the cold. In next-door Alberta and in Saskatchewan and Manitoba though, the temperatures do drop just as they do in the Northern Territories and in the Canadian Arctic.

Yesterday, late afternoon, our son went out skiing in the forested ravine that we have voluntarily shut ourselves out of for the last several days. We'll venture back in there and resume our normal daily hikes in the forest as soon as the temperature no longer sinks to a daytime high of minus-17C, with wind that cuts right through you.

My husband busied himself in seclusion for hours creating a birthday card for me. That too has become a tradition. When our three children were young their father made them amusing birthday cards. Mine this year was a reflection of our garden. A sketch of part of the garden and bright watercolours to bring out the focal points, the garden's architecture, a hint of its texture and coloured hues of the many perennials and annuals that grace it. Needless to say the garden today bears little resemblance to its vibrant summer presence.

I could become accustomed to being indoors for such long periods, but I prefer not to. We both feel that something critical is missing from the day when we can't spend at least an hour in the woods on the trails. When our little dogs lose their boots from their ecstatic leaps and bounds and scampering on and off the snowbound trails, we've got to stop and restore them lest their tiny feet freeze. I can imagine they feel as bound up as we do in layers of clothing to retain body heat, wearing sweater, coat and harness. In the backyard, during this weather, they're good for a good brief romp and then their feet freeze up.

Yesterday, in a nod to the season, my birthday and the freezing temperatures, I baked a lattice-top mincemeat pie, put on a chicken soup to cook and matzo dumplings, roasted turkey breast, roasted cauliflower, and made up a potato pudding for a robust, stomach-filling, chest-warming dinner we all enjoyed.

In the evening we watched a film that gave rise to a good, lengthy discussion between us afterward. A French film with English subtitles, The Measure of a Man, wasn't quite entertaining in the sense of the meaning, but it was a good and timely reminder of the era we live in and the accommodations we are sometimes forced to make to sustain ourselves. As much a reminder of the unknowns about the personal lives of other people and their heroic efforts to live normal lives, as it is in essence, a nudge at our universal values and priorities in human relations.

This will be one of those winters to remember. It doesn't appear to resemble the kind of winter that Environment Canada predicted for the 2017/2018 year at all, but it is certainly what has developed. We've already received an inordinate amount of snow to begin the accumulated winter snowpack this early in the season, though to be sure it's not unusual.

The level and depth and widespread nature of the cold is, however. Granted, we usually receive a number and even a succession of minus-20C days during the winter, but when the temperature drops to minus-30C that is really unusual. And that this cold weather will be prolonged, lasting a week, is even more unusual.

What we've been hit with -- and it's all over the land mass that we call Canada, the second-largest national land mass on Earth -- is called a polar vortex and it has spread its blanket of icy cold from the Arctic over much of North America, for the United States' territory, south of this country, is also experiencing extraordinary cold, wintry temperatures in states that don't normally shiver and shake as we do in Canada.

People are being urged by the municipality to call 311 if they see anyone living in the out-of-doors in this horribly inclement weather. Homeless shelters are ready to receive them through street outreach services.

People are being warned to be careful about frostbite because the prospects for that are fairly lively; white spots on cheeks are a giveaway. Last night the temperature plunged to minus-30C; in some areas to minus-32C. When we came down for breakfast this morning the thermometer had risen to minus-28C. By midday it is expected to be around minus-20C, but when factoring in the windchill it will feel more like minus-38C.

Ottawa Public Health advises that "At -15Celsius, the risk of hypothermia increases significantly and prolonged exposure to cold temperatures can result in severe injury and even death"; pretty sobering information. A wind chill of -25 risks frostbite substantially.

When we were younger, we just dressed for the weather and plunged ahead in minus-20C temperatures, even with a wind. We would walk briskly through the ravine for an hour or so, and the energy expended kept us warm. At our age we no longer walk at that same swift pace and the result is we don't keep warm. So, for the time that this exceedingly icy weather stays with us, we'll forbear
from our usually daily walks.

When we take our two little dogs out to the backyard, they're excited and instantly begin taunting one another to races and wrestling bouts. But it doesn't take long before their tiny paws begin to feel the sting of the cold, and then playtime moves to the indoors on these days of forest-trail abstinence.

At the nearby community of Perth, the tradition of a polar plunge is set to proceed regardless of the temperature. An average of fifty people take part in that plunge into the Tay River. Organizers of the Perth Polar Bear Plunge feel that these icy conditions shouldn't hinder the event. "The colder the air temperatures, the warmer the water feels", said one of the organizers.

Winter in Canada can be captivatingly beautiful and horrendously disruptive. So far, we in the Ottawa Valley have experienced much in the first category, while on the Atlantic East Coast, Nova Scotia was hit on Christmas Day with a tremendous windstorm that wreaked havoc throughout the province; roof shingles flying off, electrical poles cracked, trees uprooted, and thousands of homes without electrical power.

Damaged power lines are seen in Dartmouth, N.S., on Tuesday, Dec. 26, 2017. Thousands of Nova Scotia Power customers are without electricity after a Christmas Day windstorm wreaked havoc across the province, interrupting dinners and disrupting travel. THE CANADIAN PRESS/Andrew Vaughan

Environment Canada had earlier issued a prognosis for the coming winter; normally bitterly cold northern areas of the country are to have an amazingly mild winter season, while the southern, moderate portion of the country will be experiencing a harsh, cold winter. As for us in the Ottawa Valley, the forecast is for a winter similar to that of 2016/17, with plenty of snow and 'average' cold temperatures.

Last night, the temperature plunged to minus-24C, and was minus-20C when we awoke this morning. It won't be rising much above that throughout the day. But the sun is out and streaming through our house windows, warming the interior. When we'd gone out for our daily ravine hike yesterday it was windy, sunny and minus-12C; with the windchill factored in, the effect was that of a minus-22C day, and it felt like it.

Jackie and Jillie had to wear their full winter gear. Both 'lost' boots several times during our hike along the forest trails. They're puppies, after all, with a tendency to romp and scamper excitedly off the tramped-down trails and into the lofty snow-covered areas, their activities geared to testing the ability of those boots to remain in place. When they don't, one of us picks up the lost-boot pup (me) while my husband fits the boot back on. Sometimes they remain in place for the duration of the walk sometimes they don't. Standing about, attending to the job at ungloved hand rather than forging ahead, takes its toll.

In the last few days before this year closes to welcome in 2018, we've come across some new trail hikers. One, a standard poodle, black like ours but weighing eight times as much, was happy to be out in the snow and eager to play with our two. At first puzzled by their strenuous barking chorus, the large dog named Linus soon ignored the tumult they create, and delightedly gambolled with them into the snowpack.

Another day we came across a fiery-hued pair of young Irish setters, the younger 8 months, the older one a year ahead, with someone we'd never before met. All four dogs, our little poodles and the beautifully proportioned larger dogs set about making inroads in the freshly-fallen snow. One of the setters discovered an ice-covered portion of a branch and took proud possession of the treasure, and when we parted, took it with him. When we met them again three-quarters of an hour later as we were rounding up our circuit, he still had his new toy with  him.

On Christmas Eve, snow began falling late in the evening and continued throughout the night. When we awoke the next morning there was a soft, cushiony plumping of snow covering the snowpack that covers everything, that had accumulated from all the earlier snowfalls. The snow continued to fall through the morning hours on Christmas Day. And then, surprisingly, when the snow ceased, the sky briefly cleared and the sun shone its approval over the scene below.

In fact, it seemed that this was the most perfect indication that the elements of nature's weather system were recognizing how special a day this was for so many people. Visually it was exquisite. Our garden is now truly a winter garden, the trees festooned with snow, the garden beds deep in snow hiding all the summer perennials until spring arrives.

Because it was Christmas Day it was quiet and serene. Neighbours and friends had already wished one another a  Merry Christmas in the days previous, and no one, it seemed, was prepared to venture out-of-doors. True, it was windy, and the wind caught up the snow tossing it about in white, gauzy plumes everywhere. People seemed content to remain in their homes, to feast upon edible treats and to feast their eyes on those whom they care for, in a tradition of renewing faith with their religion and re-appreciating all that they have.

It must have been gnomes making their way through the forest yesterday, ensuring that boughs weighted down with snow retained that pristine appearance for a perfect Christmas landscape. One year, they had tied a big bright red ribbon around what was left of an old wooden bench, gradually falling into total disrepair, and the sight was something to behold ... but not this year.

There is a deep padding of snow covering the forest floor. Today dawned very cold, with a high temperature of minus-12C, wind tearing snow from tree trunks. Today, our puppies needed a sweater, their winter jacket and boots to keep them tolerably warm. Letting them loose in the forest pleases them mightily, and they tear through the trails, ramping up speed so that their little legs fly in all directions.

The creek has almost completely frozen over, at the bottom of the ravine. Snow covers most of it, atop the ice. It's the handsomest the creek ever looks, in fact.

I cannot have been more than three or four years old when I saw a lighted, decorated, glorious Christmas tree for the first time. An Italian family lived next door to the house on Manning Street in Toronto where my parents rented the top flat of a house consisting of a kitchen, two bedrooms and a shared bathroom. Someone of the family invited me into the house. And there, sitting in the parlour, was a blazing wonder of a Christmas tree, and my eyes goggled in pleasure.

There too sat a grey-haired old woman plump in the comfort of a rocking chair, knitting. The colour of what she was knitting didn't appeal, it was a strange green-brown-grey colour I would years later recognize as a grim shade of colour reflecting the Canadian Armed Forces. She was knitting toques and scarves and mittens for Canadian soldiers.

It wasn't much later when I was introduced to more, many more visions of Christmas, when the great downtown department stores, Eaton's and Simpsons had their huge windows facing pedestrian sidewalks dressed with fantastic scenes of rural, snowy Christmas scenes, so beautiful they clasped the heart of a little girl, as they did those of anyone strolling past. Only many of those making their way through the wintry, snowy sidewalks stopped to linger beside the displays, led in many instances by the grasp of a child insisting they must.

That was the prelude; the up-close and very personal exposure came on entry to those giant shops when on specific floors reached by elevators streaming Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and other musical Christmas durables of the day, fairies and gnomes disported themselves in absolute wonders of Christmas fairylands, some handing out goodies to children, and long lines of eager children awaiting the opportunity to sit on Santa's lap.

After all those years, the impression of wonder, the fascination of seeing the bright lights, colour, music and joy associated with welcoming Christmas for yet another year has never dissipated. It's snowing now, the world outside the comfort of our home a landscape deep in snow, the atmosphere stippled with more falling. A calm and serenity has fallen over the land.

Handel's Christmas oratorio wafts its sweet and wistful tones throughout the house.

No question this would be a snow-filled landscape for Christmas this year. People always seem to be concerned that the weather will go awry and forget its obligation to shower the landscape with fresh, white snow. In our 45 years of living in Ottawa we can, if we really strain at the effort, dimly recall one Christmas when indeed there was no snow, but it was an anomaly, never repeated since that colossal disappointment that likely took place three decades ago.

Still, the thought does linger in peoples' minds. Typically snow begins falling in the Ottawa Valley in November. Usually by the end of November there's a good blanket of it covering the ground and the ground indeed is beginning to freeze. But then, invariably there are breaks in the cold and the snow and milder days transpire, and with them rain to wash away the snow and thaw the frozen earth.

We've now acquired a depth of about a foot of snow at this juncture. It's very early winter, however, and there will be more, much more to come. My husband had to get up on a ladder and shove the snow off the metal canopy we've got over our deck. Before it was installed, instructions warned that over six inches of snow there was a possibility of collapse. We had that, and more, and roughly in the middle of that (we estimated) nine inches there was a layer of frozen snow, making the weight even more burdensome.

Footing wasn't bad on the forest trails once we launched ourselves onto them this afternoon. Gloriously bright it was, with the sun in full illumination, casting shadows over the snow, and little wind to speak of; not too cold at minus-7C. A perfect December 24, all told, and people we came across were beyond cheerful. Greetings went the rounds and best wishes for a Happy Christmas. It was as though people were floating on air, grinning and playful, companion dogs usually in tow or romping ahead.

Thoughts of sumptuous meals with friends and family lingering deep within; the imagination doesn't have to work on overtime, all one has to do is recall those scenes going back to childhood for the ultimate comfort of sentiment and anticipation. For some, when they return from the woods and open their house door, the divine fragrance of an oven deep in the throes of putting finishing touches to a Christmas meal would envelop them; for others that would be delayed to Christmas Day.

It is, no matter such small distinctions, the one day of the year that people look forward to; a cultural, religious, heritage day of celebration with its roots deep in memory, refurbished over the years, build-up to excitement and serenity of mind. At the very least, that's how we imagine it to be. Particularly those who don't celebrate Christmas as a religious holiday, but regard it as a public celebration of event of lights and colour, music and happiness shared with loved ones.

It is a time of celebrated inclusiveness, in fact.

These are unmistakably wintry days, frigid temperatures, cutting winds and a wan winter sun one day, snow tumbling through the atmosphere the next. These are not weather experiences made to order, but they do tend to order the sequence of our days throughout the winter months. There are times when we hesitate to venture out for our regular daily rambles in the woods yet far more frequently there is no question but that we will, and we do.

Sometimes the very thought of layering ourselves in clothing to fend off the cold, and doing the same with Jackie and Jillie give us pause. But it's mostly the thought of forcing their little paws and legs into protective gear like the Muttluks and then watching as they race off in enthusiastic exultation at being out in the snow despite the cold, one or another boots being flung off in the process that really makes us hesitate.

And when that happens I hold the one who has lost a boot while my husband negotiates it back into place. Odds are even that the replaced boot will shoot off again, or alternately remain in place for the remainder of our hike through the snowy ravine.

On winter afternoons the woods under overcast skies tend to take on a dimly crepuscular aura. True, that adds to a sense of mystery; as though one has entered the proverbial the deep, dark woods. Having entered, however, the dusky appearance seems to lift, and one proceeds along trails muted in the tranquility of the snow, surrounded by the trees resembling silent sentinels absent foliage, the trunks dark against the snow on the forest floor.

If it happens to be snowing while you're there in the woods. the overall appearance becomes mist-like as though a faint white fog has appeared, a veil of falling white snowflakes. When it's a sunny afternoon on the other hand, while the afternoon forest still has a dim, dusky appearance, the canopy above is illuminated with a golden brightness, a gift of the setting sun.

The twilight appeal of the forest is quite lovely and utterly peaceful. These are landscape nuances of time and place that fail to impress our two little dogs, but they do us -- enormously.

Yesterday afternoon after we had returned from our ravine walk with our little fellows and I'd finished putting the finishing touches to dinner preparations, I sat down to read the newspapers when Jackie and Jillie went into overdrive, yapping and barking, hysterics which they invariably indulge in whenever the doorbell rings. It was a special delivery for our renewed passports.

My husband was out, he'd gone to pick up one of the tires and rims of the car that was deflating. A week ago he'd had the mechanics at Canadian Tire change the car's tires from all-weather to ice tires, a twice-yearly necessity that he used to do himself until I finally convinced him that at age 81 he should leave that physical exertion to professionals. He'd taken the truck in to get its tires changed weeks earlier, but last year he had done them both himself, as usual.

Last week, when the work was done and he picked up the car, he was surprised to find work that he hadn't authorized done; it was a complete vehicle check to which all the indices checked no problem, but it was a surprise to my husband that it had been done since he had never indicated he wanted it. He's well known there as a long-time customer. He also used to change the oil himself in all of our succession of vehicles over the decades, and in the past few years that changed too.

He spoke to the supervisor, a man he knows fairly well, expressing his surprise that something he had no reason to ask to be done had been, and he was assured that the charge related to it would be withdrawn. What my husband did next is typical of him, he went to the nearby Great Canadian Superstore, bought one of their huge Black Forest cakes, and took it over to the Canadian Tire garage.

Yesterday, when he returned with the deflating tire asking that it be checked, it was with the knowledge that evidently because the garage is so busy, they had overlooked due diligence to determine that all the ice tires they were fitting back on the car were in good shape. On its return the tire in question was tested for leaks, but there were none. What kept the tire from holding air was a rim of rust, duly then, sanded down.

Back my husband went for yet another Black Forest cake.

As nature's creatures, among many, we have been fortunate to inherit a world of wonders. The seasons come and they give way to others, each of which brings their very own fascinating transformations of the living theatre we call existence. Of the four discrete seasons, spring and summer likely rate as favourites for most people, but then, thinking about autumn's transition and winter's arrival our thoughts linger fondly on memories and landscapes both have brought us through the years.

In nature, immersing ourselves in our natural surroundings from time to time, we renew our relationship with the force that bred us. We happen to be personally irreligious, with no faith or belief in a deity, but perhaps it could be said that our veneration for nature is a type of faith; our creator, our nurturer. At this time of year the frenzy of believers and non-believers alike preparing for the festivals linked to religion that mark the arrival of the Winter Solstice, translated for Christians as the birth of Christ marks that great public holiday of Christmas.

We enjoy the excitement, the good feeling, the lights and celebration at a remove. For Jews, the festival of Chanukah, a time of historical Judaic deliverance and perseverance for a perpetually persecuted people, often corresponds in time with Christmas. It has, of latter years, been brightened up in reflection of that coincidental timing, from a tranquil remembrance of gratitude to one of excited joyfulness, lest all the fun and favour be exclusive to Christianity. A kind of inclusivity that children of all religions are able to share.

While many of our neighbours light up the night sky with colourful displays of lighting, the festive atmosphere encompasses those for whom Christmas is a majority time of happiness and nostalgia. The frenzied shopping excursions people fling themselves into is the less admirable function of the holiday, however, one we're happy to absent ourselves from.

We seek our daily comfort in the solace of the winter forest in the company of our two little dogs. There we amble about on snow-laden trails, the forest floor deepening in its winter snowpack, trees looming gaunt and unleafed above, and on a sunny day the golden rays of that life-giving orb illuminating the forest canopy as it begins to set in mid-afternoon.

This is our treasure-hunt, our daily ambulations through the forested ravine where each day brings us renewal and gratitude.

Snow was still falling when we roused ourselves out of bed yesterday morning. And the forecast was for milder temperatures than what we've been experiencing for the past week and a half, so that was cheering. All outdoor surfaces were well covered with light, fluffy snow, tufts of it gracing animate and inanimate alike, creating that unsurpassed micro-landscape of evanescent beauty that captures the eye and warms the soul.

Because of the volume of snow that had come down we had our doubts about how well we'd be able to flounder through the trails that hadn't yet had time for people to begin the tamping-down process. We discovered that a few hardy souls had been out before us, but no trail through the snow had yet been established, so the going was pretty tough.

It requires just so much more energy and determination to forge through layers of snow. Breaking trail was a breeze when we were young, but at 80, it's become difficult. And when you do, it's quite a narrow trail. Jackie and Jillie didn't need their winter boots, since the high was minus-4C, a cold they are able to tolerate, even with newfallen snow sticking to their paws and their hair. They love the snow and enjoy romping in it. As long as it isn't that cold that it penetrates and makes them extremely uncomfortable with long exposures.

Munchkin and Newton

We did come across someone else walking two little dogs; one her own, the other a neighbour's. We've known Donna for many years and she, like us, has had a succession of companion pets to accompany her in the ravine for long walks. The two little dogs, are considerably older than our two, nowhere near as rambunctious, given to plodding along on their short little legs. They don't stand as tall as Jackie and Jillie and where the snow hasn't been tamped down, perambulation becomes quite difficult for them, one a part Maltese, the other a miniature long-haired Dachshund.

The four little dogs hadn't seen one another in quite an age, so their meeting on the trail represented a kind of snow-party, as they gathered and communed with one another. We've no idea, after all, what transpires between dogs familiar with each other, nor what it is they possibly communicate but it might be as pedestrian as the manner in which humans greet one another, and talk briefly of insignificant matters, even the weather.

Eric Collier's autobiographical sketch of pioneering the wilds of the Chilcotin in British Columbia in the 1940s and 50s was quite a read. This man, skilled in the poetry of language in descriptions of the various manifestations of raw nature in his book Three Against the Wilderness, left a valuable legacy for all Canadians interested in learning what they can of Canada's westernmost province at that period.

He writes of the unflappable courage and homemaking skills of his wife Liliane, of their son Veasy's homespun education in the vast forests surrounding their modest one-room cabin that despite its isolation taught the boy survival skills without neglecting his introduction to advanced science and mathematics. At age six Veasy Eric Collier was already a skilled trapper like his father Eric, with his own trapline to maintain.

What the Colliers had set out to do was to re-invigorate a wilderness area that had been degraded by the fur trade, at a time when trappers, both indigenous and foreign, had extracted from the Chilcotin in the Cariboo Mountain Range all the beaver they could trap, leaving none to maintain the critical water system with their dams so that natural water runways simply dried up, with the consequence that wildlife ceased flourishing and abandoned the area.

A proposal to the B.C. Ministry of Natural Resources succeeded in having two pairs of beavers delivered to their care. With these four young beavers, placed in old abandoned beaver colonies, the population soon exploded as the original four adapted and industriously began the mammoth work of natural restoration. Their swift success in restoring the waterways and lakes of the region was of monumental usefulness to area ranchers, providing for their cattle, for as the water was restored enabling the cattle to find and make use of sources of reliable water so were vital grasses requiring irrigation to feed the cattle.

Browsing mammals returned to the area, along with otters, mink, fishers, deer, moose, bear and smaller creatures that find their home in natural woodlands of the boreal forests. Eric Collier wrote of the winter of 1948 when British Columbia experienced one of its coldest winters ever. So cold that the mighty Fraser, into which the waterways of Chilcotin pour, froze almost in its entirety. The amount of snow that fell that winter was astronomical, the cold and the snow-depth killing birds, juvenile animals and people alike. Unable to find their normal food supply due to the snow coverage, mature animals starved and froze to death.

Normally temperate British Columbia is now once again experiencing unusual cold and snow. Although not to the extent that it did back then. And so, coincidentally, is Ottawa, the second coldest, snowiest capital in the world. We've been locked into a prolonged cold snap and have received far more snow than would seem normal for this early part of winter; in fact even before the arrival of the Winter Solstice. Now, when we enter our local forested ravine, we tend to flounder through the snow, and without bundling up in layers for warmth the experience of a woodland jaunt would be far less pleasurable than it is.

On Saturday evening we settled down to watch a German film titled "Labyrinth of Lies". The film is a period piece, taking place in Germany fifteen years after the Second World War. When the vanquished Germany of fascist Nazi aspirations was licking its wounds and carrying on with life. It was reaching toward normalcy, not quite spurning the recent past, but tucking it away in some obscure place in peoples' apprehensions, generally disinterested in disinterring any aspect of what had just recently passed.

And most particularly the Holocaust. It was not just denial, but indifference. Germany felt it had suffered and suffered enough, that any recollection of what they had no wish to recall, and felt they knew nothing of was unwelcome. Most Germans claimed never to have heard the placename Auschwitz much less be aware of what it signified as the most hideously-linked place in Poland where Germany felt it safe from public censure to get on with its plan to obliterate the presence of Jews throughout occupied Europe through a plan of physical erasure by any means proving successful.

The Final Solution employed many means of extinguishing the lives of Jews, young and old, but it discovered the most efficient in a combination of suffocating gas chambers and vast crematoria whose chimneys lofted to the heavens belched the minuscule blackened remains of millions of innocent children, women and men, infants and elderly alike. In the minds of most Germans it never happened. In the minds of German officials it was best to behave as though it never happened. No reckoning required, no inner search for the rationale that held the liberation of the world would be accomplished by obliterating the presence of an ethno-cultural-religious group whose members had been recognized as achieving great forward strides in advancing civilization, in artistic and scientific breakthroughs enriching humanity.

Had they been a group whose presence on Earth added nothing of significance to the greater good, their anguish and destruction would still have cried to the heavens for moral retribution.

The year 1958 saw a newly introduced staff member to the German federal court prosecution team, a young man whose idealism was groomed by his memory of a father who instructed his son to "always do the right thing". The father had never returned from the war front, and fifteen years on was presumed dead, but his memory remained precious and large in his son's mind, as someone who rejected the Third Reich, inspiring the son to take on a campaign to restore honour and dignity to a Germany he loved, and throughout the course of his passionate adventure in discovering the horrors of the Holocaust, discovering that no one was interested, everything chose to deny, and his course of action was doomed to fail because of governmental obstructionism.

His commitment to cleansing Germany of its immense moral blot against humanity spurred him to see justice done impartially in the recognition of the great crime committed against Europe's Jewish community. First-hand narrative accounts of the suffering and horrors witnessed by survivors left him shaken and appalled. The grief expressed by survivors burrowed deep into his own soul. Discovering that his venerated father was in fact a member of the Nazi Party, the chief prosecutor attempted to assuage his junior member's despair by assuring him that membership had been universal within the legal community. Just as the knowledge of the vicious oppression of the Jews was common knowledge among average Germans who claimed to have known nothing of what had occurred.

His commitment and determination against all odds, however, and the support he was given by his superior, the federal prosecutor general, who just happened to be a Jew who had been a wartime slave worker in Auschwich, saw Johann Radmaan, the young prosecutor, eventually prevail. His desperate search to apprehend the Angel of Death, Dr. Josef Mengele, came to naught, but he had the satisfaction of seeing the Mossad capture Adolf Eichmann, and was outraged when Germany had no interest in requesting his extradition from Israel, to face public trial and the consequences due him.

His efforts did result in the arrest and prosecution and trial of relatively routine, minor members of the Nazi military, complicit in the extermination of their helpless Jewish victims.

After yesterday's bone-chilling ravine walk where, walking along the forest trails we stopped not only to regain our breath after forging uphill in the snow, but to look backward, before us and everywhere surrounding us as the sun illuminated the newfallen snow creating vistas of virginal white perfection. We'd gone out earlier than usual. And although it was a Sunday there were scant few others on the trails, despite the clear blue sky.

My husband had been musing about returning to stained glass landscaping. He had built a door awhile ago but never got around to filling it with a stained glass interior. We've quite a number of his doors in our home. They're colourful and cheerful, another venue to showcase nature. Stained glass lends itself wonderfully to capturing light and transforming colours into variations of themselves. Sometimes it's as though whatever is depicted actually has life in it, and it does, of a sort.

He has plenty of stained glass in reserve, but needed other things, so a drive to the west end of the city was in order to visit his source for all the needed items that go into a stained glass window. This will be his winter project. He always has a winter project. So, off we went. The preferential route is the Eastern Parkway skirting the city centre, and linking to the Western Parkway. It's a scenic route taking us past many areas of Ottawa familiar to tourists.

We drove along Sussex Drive once arrived downtown, past foreign embassies, the Mint and the National Gallery, the Peace Memorial and Byward Market, the Chateau Laurier and the Parliament Buildings. We also passed the site of the newly-opened Holocaust centre and the War Museum. In the spring we will make a trip for the purpose of visiting the Holocaust centre.

On the return trip we passed the External/Foreign Affairs complex where my husband worked as his career concluded. The Ottawa River, we noted, is well on its way in places to freezing over. Before long, avid ice fishers will be out when the ice is deemed thick enough to bear weight, to put up their ice huts and cut holes in the ice to spend hours out there fishing.

My husband selected what he needed to begin. But he will first have to decide what he wants to design and produce the cartoon out of which he will cut and number parts like a puzzle, to be pieced together to finalize what he envisions will be another bit of stained art glasswork.